Candles
by Milk and Glass
Summary: Mer/Der fic, takes place during the candle house scene in the season finale. One-shot request fic.


It started with the candles

It started with the candles.

Maybe most people aren't into trawling through dollar stores, taking pleasure out of the cheaply-painted figurines, crappy dishes and no-name brand cleaning products, but you got into the habit when you were in medical school. If you can't afford to go out and spend a lot of money on household items, why not head to the dollar store? Sure, the cleaner left stripes of white cream on your battered old desk and headboard. The no-name Windex was streaky and made the windows dirtier than when you started. But it was fun to come home with a bag of stuff, even if it was boring and cheap.

So, now that you make a lot more money and can actually afford to go to Whole Foods, you don't spend as much time with the dollar store as you used to. But like Cristina before you, it's sometimes fun to go and blow 20 when you're having a bad day. And this counts as a bad day – a bad three months, actually. Wandering blindly through the store with one of those tiny carts is strangely therapeutic.

And then you saw the candles.

They must have gotten a huge shipment just as you'd come into the store. Some of them aren't even out of their boxes yet. They're all simple, just white candles in a frosted glass holder. No religious decals. No weird scents. Just the light, almost refreshingly dry scent of beeswax.

Derek's been absent. You've been absent. And you realize that it's not exactly anything that either of you have decided. No one decided to stop trying. You're just waiting for something to happen – something else to start another emotional high.

Maybe it's your turn.

You grab a box of candles – there's about fifty in there, and wave down a dollar store employee. "Yeah, I need more than just fifty candles. Do you have another box of these?"

"Ma'am?" He looks totally confused, and you blink in frustration.

"Am I required to give you a signed affidavit of what I'm going to be doing with my purchases? From a dollar store? Really, Jeremy?" You gesticulate to his nametag, your voice rising. "Just give me another box if you have them, or call the other Dollarama to see if they have any more of these stupid candles!"

Crazy lady in scrubs waving wildly at him? Jeremy knows when he's beaten. He scuttles to the back room while you heave the heavy box into your cart and wheel it up to the front, the slight squeak of the wheels catching on the edge of your teeth.

Three boxes later, you're paying close to 160, with tax, for these stupid candles, but you manage to ignore the curious looks of all the Dollarama staff and the many foreign women and their children. Jeremy has to help you carry the boxes to your car in the pouring rain; you fumble with your keys and thrust two dollar bills into his hand for his trouble.

And then you drive home, the windshield wipers squeaking on the glass, the grey day blurring. Because despite the rain, you have a plan. This time, it'll be your grand romantic gesture that will win him back. Because you're sick of the whole stupid thing and isn't it about time someone ended up happy?

It takes a long time bent double on the wet grass, the trees dripping cold water down your back and soaking your ponytail. By the time you've arranged slightly crooked outlines of lit candles on the site of the new house, you're exhausted and shivering. But it's strangely beautiful, the light dancing on the shining field, bouncing from the trees and dazzling your eyes.

You dial Derek's cell phone, but get his voice mail. And suddenly, it's like it doesn't matter. He's not waiting around. He's moved on. And all you've got left is a blueprint of candles in a sodden field.

"Derek, it's me . . . I'm just . . . well, I thought I'd just call you. But you're not there. As usual. If you get this, I'm out at the trailer. So. Come out. If you want to."

And then you feel like a total idiot for doubting him when he shows up five minutes later.

"I was at the trailer; why didn't you knock?" His voice is low and sonorous; he blinks at the light from the windblown candles and his eyes are soft. Not pitying because you're dripping and cold. Just tender.

"Well, come in," you snap, feeling slightly less than sophisticated, and he does.

"Nice house."

"Thanks." And then you're leading him around. "This is the kitchen. I thought we'd have breakfast here. You can have Muesli."

"And you can not eat, and I'll force you to have bites of my cereal."

You laugh suddenly and he kisses you, your laugh cut off mid-giggle as you breathe him in, taste his familiar taste and feel his arms around you. And despite yourself, you start to cry.

"Oh, Mer," he says in concern, wiping your tears, mixed with the rain, with his thumb from your cheeks.

"I don't want you to be with her. I want this to happen. I got the candles and I tried to make it romantic and I yelled at the Dollarama guy."

"You yelled at the Dollarama guy?"

"Because he looked at me weird when I wanted the candles. But I wanted them for you. To do this for you."

"Mer."

"Don't say it. Just listen. I told you to choose me and you did, and then I fucked it up. I fucked it up and it was my fault, and now you're with Rose. But I wanted you from the beginning and now I want you for good."

"You're finally ready?"

"I was always ready," you murmur, and drop your head against his chest, listening to his heart over the sound of the light rain. "I didn't know it."

His cell phone rings, and you both look at the lit-up LCD display. "ROSE."

You raise your eyes to his ice-blue ones, luminous in the half-light, and shrug, turning from him.

And he flips the phone closed, tosses it into the wet grass across the border of friendly fire, and kisses you again.

It started with the candles, but it ended with the rain.

Somehow, it's appropriate.


End file.
